One Grave Less

fantastic weather,” one said, “and I’ll have canceled my plans for nothing.”
    Jonas Briggs, her archaeologist, and Korey Jordan, her conservator, were seated at a table in deep conversation.
    “Leo Bassi said she didn’t show up and didn’t call. That’s unusual. You know her, don’t you?” said Jonas.
    “Her and John too. We were at the big site together. Have you called the department?” asked Korey.
    “Not yet,” said Jonas. “Leo mentioned it in passing, and it just occurred to me that perhaps I should check. But I assume someone from her department is on top of it. Still, it’s bothersome. It’s not like her to miss a lecture without notifying someone. She’s too professional for that.”
    Three others at another table were discussing the events in the Mayan Room and poor Madge Stewart. One was wondering if Madge was in some way involved with the Mayan disaster. “I don’t think the Mexicans are going to loan the artifacts now,” another said.
    Diane half listened to the conversations as she looked over the drink selection, deciding what she wanted. She finally decided on a 7UP and put her money in, selected her drink, and started out the door.
    Jonas looked up. “Diane,” he said.
    Not fast enough, she thought.
    “Jonas.” She walked over and he reached out a hand to her. She took it.
    “You doing okay, Dr. F.?” said Korey. His dark face and his amber brown eyes were full of concern.
    “I’m fine,” she said.
    “What the heck is going on?” asked Jonas, patting the back of her hand.
    “Damn if I know,” said Diane. “But I’m going to find out. Someone seems to be out to thoroughly ruin my reputation. For what reason, I haven’t a clue.”
    “If you need anything, just ask,” said Jonas.
    “Yeah,” said Korey, “whatever you need . . .”
    “Thank you both. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, Kendel is acting director. I need time to work on this.”
    “Oh, no, I hate that,” said Jonas. “I don’t mean Kendel, but . . .”
    “It’ll be fine. I won’t be far off,” she said.
    “I’m sure you’ll have it cleared up in time for the wedding,” said Korey.
    “I’m sure,” said Diane. “Vanessa will insist. It seems nothing is going to interfere with the wedding.”
    They laughed and Diane was glad to leave them thinking she was okay with all of this. But she wasn’t. She hated it. All of it. Right now she was so pissed at Pris Halloran she would like to strangle her with her own microphone cord. But I would be the first suspect , she thought.
    Diane crossed the dinosaur overlook, headed for the west wing—the dark side—where she and her forensic team worked on dark matters, as her museum staff liked to describe the things the crime lab did behind the locked doors. Dark was how Diane felt at the moment. She punched in the code that unlocked the crime lab door and entered.

Chapter 33
    The crime lab was a warren of glassed-in cubicles, a clean space for a wide range of scientific analyses. Usually there was at least one of her crew working in at least one of the cubicles processing evidence from a crime scene. Now, however, David, Neva, and Izzy were sitting around the conference table drinking coffee with Lynn Webber, the medical examiner. David and Izzy stood as Diane approached.
    “Andie said you were on your way over,” said David.
    “She also said you put Kendel and her in charge of the museum,” said Neva. Her usually smooth face was wrinkled in a scowl. Her honey brown hair was pulled back with a clip that was in danger of being pulled out, given the way she subconsciously tugged at it.
    Diane was getting tired of repeating the same answer. But people would keep asking as they discovered that Diane had stepped down—even temporarily. She hoped it was temporary. She sat in the chair Izzy pulled out for her and took a long drink of her soda.
    “Yes, I put Kendel in charge,” she said, setting her drink down. “Someone is out to get me, to ruin my reputation, to destroy my life, apparently. I need to focus my attention on finding out who the hell it is . . . and why.”
    “I think that Pris Halloran is just awful,” said Lynn.
    Lynn Webber was out of her lab coat, slacks, and boots, and in a formfitting dress of pearl gray silk, a strand of delicate silver chain around her neck, and light gray Italian leather heels on her tiny little feet. Her hair always looked styled, but it was shinier and her makeup fresher. She looked dressed for